The Secret Ingredient
by Lifeisforlivingoutloud
Summary: Arthur's known since he was little. He wants to become a professional chef and cook in Paris. However his poor cooking skills limit his success & he vows to master the art by beginning work at the Hidden Blue in New York City. He knows the young prodigy and executive chef, Alfred Jones, can help him achieve his dream. What he doesn't know is Alfred may just become part of his dream
1. Chapter 1: Mise En Place

**Chapter 1: Mise En Place**

_Arthur gawked from his regal velvet chair, his green eyes open in wonder, his jaw hanging in amazement. He heard a sharp tut, which was swiftly followed by his mother's slender, gloved hand reaching under his chin to push his mouth closed. _

_Arthur's eyes circled around the lavishly decorated room which was adorned with the finest filigrees. Ornamental cherubs and golden curls covered the ceiling, trailing alongside a fresco painted by a little known artist who really deserved more credit. The walls were illustrated with images of the French countryside, drawn in vibrant colors that made Arthur want to jump on a plane and travel the world. There were paintings and murals of breathtaking scenery everywhere. Not a space of wall was left blank._

_A scene depicting a glimpse of a vineyard at dawn was particularly exquisite: the sun's rays were reminiscent of wispy golden tendrils that reached across the ground, like fingers stretching to hold the fresh soil beneath the endless rows of deep red grapes. The restaurant's candelabras emitted a soft glow across these paintings, the electric lights hidden behind semitransparent lampshades. The room stretched on endlessly, making the young boy feel particularly small in his large dining chair, which no doubt had been previously graced by the presence of the rich and famous. _

_His fingers unconsciously gripped the red velvet tighter as he scanned the room. People dressed elegantly in evening gowns and their best suits sat around tables draped in white tablecloths, the simplicity of which balanced out the elaborate decorations of the centuries old building. Whispers of their chatter snuck into Arthur's ear from the low din that filled the room. His gaze came to rest upon a waiter and then his mother, who was glaring at him in annoyance._

_Arthur abruptly fell out of his surreal daydream and shrunk back into his seat. _

_"Arthur! Qu'est-ce que vous voulez manger?" his mother snapped._

_Arthur's heartbeat quickened in dread. No matter how often he tried to comprehend his mother's obsession with appearing classy by speaking the trending language of the "sophisticated," he could not understand it. Thus, he shrugged and braced himself for the coming onslaught of whispered reprimands. His mother looked at him sharply, and gestured at the menu sitting in front of him atop his white plate. _

_Arthur looked futilely at the menu, which was written completely in French. There were no pictures in this menu, unlike the menus of the less expensive places his father used to bring him and his mother when Arthur was younger. Not a single crayon has appeared either. What his father had described earlier as a day of bonding for the pair only meant a long day of torment and twisted sorrow for Arthur._

_He looked up again in desperation, and noticed the waiter had been standing there for quite a length of time. Arthur jabbed his finger at a random item on the menu, and the waiter swiftly yet gracefully took the menu and replied to his mother, whose expression immediately changed into one of false gratitude. Arthur shrank even farther into his seat, having guessed that the waiter had been speaking to his mother while he had been marveling at the sights and sounds around him. No wonder his mother was unhappy, having had to wait that long for a reply._

_As soon as the waiter was out of sight, she bent slightly forward across the table, her high collared dress secured by a brooch that shone in the pleasant light of the restaurant. __The brooch gleamed enough to relfect Arthur's terrified expression._

_"Arthur! Have you been studying your French at all? Your father and I" - Arthur wanted to snort at this - "pay a lot of money to afford you a tutor, yet this is how you repay us?" she hissed._

_Arthur's mother leaned back and smoothed her ruffled feathers, her fingers tucking a stray brown lock behind her ear and rearranging the folds of her dress to fall "elegantly," as she so put it. __Arthur was tempted to respond with a snide comment, but he bit his tongue. It would not do to appear immature. Instead he replied, to the best of abilities, in French._

_"Désolée, maman." **  
**_

_Sorry, Mother._

_His mother looked somewhat pleased at this and nodded in acknowledgment. She took a sip from her wine glass, with an air as if her palate she could discern anything about it like that of a connoisseur. _

_Arthur could not help but despise the woman he called his mother. As if she ever would be such._

_She was just some woman who had been disposed of by her former husband, no doubt because of her "lovely" personality. She had found Arthur's father late at night in a bar drinking away the sorrows of the death of his late wife, Arthur's real mother, and had supposedly fallen in love at first sight. In reality, however, she had been scorned by her previous fiancé, and now, having had a brief taste of the luxurious upper crust lifestyle, desired more._

_Thus, she had wandered into a bar and found the most drunken fellow, which happened to be Arthur's father in a moment of weakness. Arthur was fiercely proud of his father, who worked seven days a week to support them and never uttered a word of complaint. The man had been sober for more than two years now, living out his promise to this woman to stay clean. He hadn't ever been an alcoholic to begin with, but had merely been searching for a way to nurse the heartache from his late wife's death. Thus he had gone out for a drink, much to Arthur's confusion. __Arthur, having been left at home, was eleven at the time—barely old enough to understand what had happened._  


_And what had really happened was that this woman sitting before Arthur, who was currently stealing glances at the high class society about her in pure glee, had sunk her talons into his unsuspecting father. Her previous fiancé had been an esteemed politician who since birth had been promised to her in marriage. But after the discovery of this woman's evil nature, he disregarded social etiquette and broke their engagement - __probably his way of saying good riddance, and frankly, Arthur couldn't blame him._

_She had been searching __for a husband ever since, and had caught Arthur's father in a rare __drunken state. They were wed the next month. She had only married Arthur's father because she had mistakenly thought they were better off then they actually had been - and it also wasn't socially acceptable to be unwed at thirty._

___Now she spent every moment of Arthur's life making it hell - which Arthur suspected was revenge for being tied to the pair for the rest of her life. She couldn't divorce his father no matter how much everyone but his father wanted it, because it just wasn't done. Arthur was sure, however, that she would jump at any chance to leave them if she could._

_Now, two years after the marriage, they were sitting in an extravagant restaurant, wasting his father's hard earned money for a two day trip to the fake, albeit beautiful, city of Paris - where everyone's goal was to climb the social ladder and please others, only to stab them in the back moments later._

_She was infuriatingly shallow, but his father somehow found it deep within himself to love her. So instead of insulting her, Arthur smiled weakly, feigning the ever-loyal son façade. He kept his mouth shut, and diverted his attention back to the gorgeous restaurant. After several tense moments, the waiter brought Arthur his first dish - his appetizer. He poured sparkling mineral water into the tumbler for which Arthur's wine glass had been swapped, and __then proceeded to set the bottle on the table and politely excuse himself._

_Arthur looked skeptically at the food in front of him. Gourmet cuisine was not what he thought it would be. For the boy's first trip to a four-star restaurant, he had expected something more hearty. There wasn't a single thing on the miniscule plate that looked edible. He would have warily pushed it off to the side, but his mother glared daggers at him lest he chose to do so. So instead, he momentarily set aside his frustrations concerning his mother. Arthur gulped nervously and timidly cut off a section of the mystery food and slid it onto his fork. He lifted it to his mouth and chewed. _

_He was in love._

_Arthur had apparently pointed to something in the menu that was delicious, and mouthwatering. He took a closer look at the appetizer placed in front if him. It was a small circle of chesse... was it from a sheep? Or perhaps a goat? A small leaf was placed atop for decoration - a simple thing, whose appearance did the dish no justice. He took another bite, and his toes curled beneath the table._

_The flavors were layered to perfection. There was a sharp bite of citrus, as well as the distinct flavor of olives, and the classic taste of thyme. The world briefly shrank, until it was just Arthur and his wonderful dish of cheese. He closed his eyes in pure bliss, the darkness blurring as he tried to put the images to the flavors. Large pops of color and brief interludes of music accompanied each unique taste. The tang of the lemon sent yellow swirls zooming into his range of thought, accompanied by a zesty samba beat. The mellow flavor of the olives brought the light blue of waves, washing away the yellow swirls as quickly as they had come with their crescendos. And the thyme... it was Arthur's personal favorite. Soft red flashes gently eased into the mix, with a lively foxtrot behind it. Arthur had trouble expressing the exquisite blend of foods. He rolled it around his mouth, the smooth consistency somewhat intoxicating. Without realizing, Arthur had shut out most of the sounds that surrounded him from the low murmur of the restaurant. When he finally had to swallow, he missed the presence of the utterly divine taste. Laughter and trivial chatter slowly filtered back into his consciousness.**  
**_

_Below the table, his feet, which barely touched the floor, twisted with pleasure. He stabbed a larger section of his food and beamed as he ate it. Arthur didn't care at the moment whether his mother thought he was being boorish; he was thoroughly enjoying his food, and thus was smiling blissfully. The clink of his metal fork against the fine white porcelain dish was the signal that he had completed his first course. Arthur could have just eaten the small introductory dish and been content for hours._

_His eyebrows raised in surprise as the waiter brought the second course just as Arthur finished his appetizer. The main course was superb, and dessert sublime. Nevertheless, the second and third courses just didn't quite move Arthur as much as the first dish had. It had been the best meal he had ever tasted, besides his late mother's homecooking. He had sworn that he would never love another's fare, fearing the label of traitor, but in this instance, he couldn't help it. _

_The entire lovely experience was all over too soon, and his mother dragged him out of the restaurant as Arthur cast wistful glances about him. The scenery, the delicacies, the atmosphere... the thirteen-year old vowed to memorize them.**  
**_

_Arthur felt something stir within him, as the doorman held the gilded glass door open. He couldn't quite place what it was, until he stepped across the threshold of the restaurant. He craned his neck to view the tall brick building, consisting of at least four stories. The grandiose architecture and atmosphere of the restaurant left him craving more. More of what, he couldn't quite tell. Yet. He did know one thing though. _

_Arthur wanted to become a professional chef._

_He spent the next two years working hard in school, his love of learning rekindled by his motivation to make it through high school and college, the final goal being culinary school._

_Arthur attempted the occasional baking project, which, during one of his worst efforts, had set the oven ablaze. One blackened stove, cross stepmother and a rather put out Arthur later, only a burnt cake was left. After, Arthur's mother banned him from the kitchen for several weeks, and the only way Arthur had been able to avoid the kitchen was by thinking of the consequences of another failed attempt._

_Arthur expressed his interest in becoming a chef, often dropping hints about cooking lessons. However Arthur's mother found the profession was 'unfit,' and as per usual, his father agreed with his mother. So, Arthur continued his fruitless endeavors, which were mediocre at best._

_Much to Arthur and his mother's chagrin, his father prohibited anymore trips to fancy restaurant because of his steadily decreasing pay. Arthur was quite sure that his mother only "listened" to his father because of society's view that women were subordinate to men._

_Six years came to pass, and his father tragically died due to "unknown circumstances." The police and medics deemed it a case of sleeping drug overdose, lethal when consumed with alcohol. Arthur knew better. Arthur's father never drank, until the vile woman - she was never his mother - had pleaded him to take a glass of wine on the night of their wedding anniversary. Arthur had seen her slip in a pill, but he hadn't thought she had put in anymore than that. He felt responsible, for he hadn't warned his father, but still angry as hell at the dastardly woman. He finally came to know what it felt like to hate another human with one's whole being. _

_However, without proper evidence, Arthur was unable to make his case against the conniving woman. His "mother" immediately abandoned him, making off with more than half of his father's meager savings. Arthur worked full-time as a busboy, trying to keep afloat in addition to paying off the rest of the mortgage on his family home. Arthur often looked forlornly in the direction of his kitchen, but he could barely find the energy within himself to lift his legs and walk up the stairs to his bedroom when he returned home late at night. Arthur desperately wanted to cook, but he could just never find the time in his chaotic schedule to do so. Earning minimum wage, Arthur couldn't keep up the payments, and the bank foreclosed on him. With the last ties to his beloved parents gone, and the last of his inheritance spent on finishing night school, __the twenty one year old was left alone in the cold world. That woman had caused him years of torture. She left him loveless, alone, and dismal. Not that she had ever loved him, or made him feel warm or content._

_In a way, Arthur was glad to be rid of her. His life could finally begin._

**Thanks for reading! Please review! Just a side tidbit, mise en place means for a chef to gather, prepare and measure all ingredients before beginning. Thanks to my beta Galythia too! Alfred will appear in a chapter or two :)**


	2. Chapter 2: Al Dente

**Chapter 2: Al Dente**

_April 1912: Northampton, England_

A man of twenty-one years pulled the brim of his felt cap down in a vain attempt to keep the impish winds from taking it away with them. The young man tugged the edges of his Norfolk jacket closer to his body to stave off the brisk chill of the spring air. The clouds in the sky above were lightening as daybreak neared, however the weather remained unchanged. The April showers had made their appearance at the beginning of the month, and, against Arthur's desires, were still pouring down in bucketfuls. He was not spared, and the torrents of water had mercilessly soaked everything the Briton was wearing. It felt like the icy water had penetrated his skin and chilled him straight to the bone.

The normally bustling Northampton street stood empty, save for the occasional hurried pedestrian who wanted to escape the downpour. Arthur wished for nothing more than to be curled up in his humble flat with the woolen blanket his beloved late mother had left for him and a copy of _The Hound of the Baskervilles, _borrowedfrom his neighbor. As the blonde let his mind wander in the hopes that he could break free from his current predicament, if only for a few fleeting moments by exploring the genius that was Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, he felt the ground shift beneath him. Arthur allowed a small gasp to issue forth involuntarily from his lips before he grabbed for the nearest stable surface, which happened to be a lamppost.

It was only Arthur's quick reaction that saved him from completely falling into the large puddle he had haphazardly walked into. His heartbeat still raced as he shakily released the streetlight from his grasp. Arthur unsteadily straightened up and felt a twinge of dull pain shoot up his back. He had been working late last night, and had stood, bent over, in front of the soapy water for three hours straight as he tried to scrub the patrons' leftovers into the garbage and wash the growing pile of dishes.

He clenched his jaw as he stumbled to the nearest curb. The young Briton sent a glare toward the loose cobblestone that had sent him sprawling. In an attempt to remain dignified, Arthur disappeared under the awning of an unfamiliar storefront that hadn't opened yet. He was now grateful that the street was empty. If anyone had seen him pitch forward... It was humiliating enough already without the ridicule of others. Or perhaps it was that the Brit was used to the loneliness. If anyone became close enough to him to find out his deepest and darkest secrets, they immediately looked at him differently. Arthur had been finished with the mixed expressions of disgust, pity, and scorn. It was better to close himself off. Everyone found a way to hurt him in the long run.

Arthur lightly shook his head to clear his thoughts, and his blonde locks cast droplets of water around him in a circle. The twenty-one year old pulled his newsboy cap completely off, and wrung the water from the well-worn hat. He smiled bitterly. It was just his luck to leave his home without an umbrella, to be caught in a sudden rain shower, _AND_ to slip in an ankle-deep puddle. Arthur gazed down at his shoes and wanted to groan in frustration. He didn't mind that his boots, which had only been laced halfway up, had gotten wet, but rather, he did mind that his socks were drenched. The green-eyed Englishman took a step and inwardly flinched as his shoes made a squelching sound, though he doubted it could be heard over the pitter-patter of the rain.

The man caught a glimpse of his reflection in the storefront window. '_I look like a cat that was doused in a bath,' _Arthur noted grimly. He sighed and stepped forward to rest his head against the window. He shrugged off his jacket, and was left in his dress shirt and waistcoat. His bowtie seemed to sag with the weight of the water, as Arthur found his shoulders sagging identically with the weight of his burdens. He looked into his green eyes, which almost seemed as if they belonged to a different person. But, they were his, as Arthur could recognize the familiar tired gaze.

The spark had died out months ago, as he had finished school. He had made it through university, but he couldn't afford culinary school, let alone his steadily increasing rent, with his pay that seemed to be stretched thinner and thinner as time wore on. The Briton wondered whether there was a point to his life. Every day, he woke up even more exhausted than he had been the night before, and rose at an ungodly hour to make it to his unsatisfactory job as a busboy, which paid next to nothing. He couldn't afford a bicycle, even with the invention of pneumatic tires. Hence, the ungodly hour of waking. Arthur had ingrained into his mind the twenty-block route from his unprivileged flat to his humble job and back. He had been doing the trek for... was it five years now? The young man experienced a sudden despair for his dreary existence. His hand came to rest atop his head before he fisted it in his hair.

"Drat it all... What am I doing with my life?" Arthur found himself speaking aloud. He also found himself waiting for an answer, but he couldn't formulate one. The background noise of falling raindrops mocked him, as if the answer was embedded in their senseless sounds. Arthur cast another forlorn glance at the window, and took a closer look at himself. His blonde hair was no longer plastered to his forehead, and was beginning to dry. His hat had become wrinkled, having dried in his tight grip. The Brit's pale face seemed to stand out in the world colored in hues of gray. His emerald eyes appeared to be the only bright color in the reflection. His light green waistcoat was still soaked, however his black bow tie seemed to gather a bit of life back as it dried. Arthur hooked his left thumb into the back of his cap and his right into the front and positioned it over his head before placing it uniformly onto his cranium. The young man shouldered his overcoat back on, and double checked his appearance. He had dried off a bit standing here... How long had Arthur been waiting there for the rain to stop?

Arthur pushed his sleeve up and worriedly checked the time on his watch that rarely worked. How Arthur desperately hoped it was not working correctly at the moment. It was a quarter past six. He was fifteen minutes late, and the small café was four more blocks away. Arthur gathered energy from reserves he did not know he possessed as he ran down the sidewalk in the direction of his work. He was instantly wet again as he darted across the street, but the blonde couldn't care less. He was more concerned about what his supervisor would say.

...

Arthur's breath came in short pants as he neared the clear glass door. He slowed to a walk and fixed his mussed outfit. Arthur inhaled as he forced a smile and paused to collect himself. He opened the door, and was immediately met with the mouthwatering scent of baking bread. He noticed that the café owner's back was to him at the moment, and he took the opportunity to sneak into the kitchen. He wasn't going to jolly well tell the tyrant that he was late for the second time that week. The man slipped through the staff's door as noiselessly as bread raising. He swiftly hung up his jacket and hat on the coat rack in the corner and reached for the folded white apron made of coarse material. Deftly tying the apron strings behind his back, Arthur moved to stand in front of the fire that roared in the brick oven. The Briton let a small smile grace his face as he smelled the freshly baked bread. He glanced around the kitchen before slipping into a contemplative mood, and noticed the absence of the usual chefs. Arthur indiscernibly shrugged and felt himself warm up due to the heat of the fire. He hoped that the café would stay empty of customers, just long enough for the man to dry off. Again.

He sighed as his stomach grumbled, as if to complain about the lack of breakfast it had received that morning. Arthur pressed his hand to it as if to placate the stomach and quiet its rumblings. He looked forlornly at the loaves of golden brown bread and shook his head. He had hoped that even if he couldn't be a professional chef, he would still be able to enjoy the marvels of food. Arthur desperately wished that he could rewind the time and stop himself from taking the job position as a busboy, and eradicate his foolish belief that as long as he worked around food, he would be content. It was a continuous cycle. The young man would work himself to death, yet the bills kept piling up.

Arthur felt the familiar emotions that he had always restrained threaten to bubble up. He wanted to let them take over, and control his unfeeling heart, but he forced them back down. The Brit had done that once. It had only caused pain and misery, and led to a breakdown. He smiled ruefully. Arthur had to break this cycle.

"_Mister _Kirkland!" Arthur was startled out of his reverie - he refused to admit that he had yelped - by a loud voice. He could already hear the anger. The blonde turned to see the café owner storm toward him.

"Mr. B -" Arthur was rudely interrupted before he could even explain himself.

"Kirkland! You've arrived late twice this week, and it is only Tuesday! I come in here to find you standing around like the sniveling simpleton you are!" The man towered over Arthur, which wasn't all that hard. After all, Arthur was only five foot nine. He had always been smaller than his younger brothers. Despite his height, however, Arthur unconvincingly put up a front.

"But sir, I insist this will only happen once -" Arthur felt his temperature rise as his frustration grew at being interrupted once again.

"Arthur, I am sick of your excuses! You laze around half the day and bodge every job given to you. It's a wonder that I even pay you! I should lower your pay. Now listen here Kirkland —"

"No! Now you listen here sir! I am up to here with your complaints!" The pale Briton, now a livid crimson, gestured with his hand at eye level.

Arthur agreed that he was sick too. Sick and tired of being treated like this. He had also reached breaking point, which always led to consequences Arthur did not enjoy. However, he couldn't stop himself as the young Briton lost his temper.

"I have had it! This was the last straw! I struggle to get here on time every bloody morning! Four-thirty every morning! The pay isn't even worth it; nobody could pay me to put up with your attitude for five more years. Consider my loyalty gone. I" — Arthur grabbed the front of his apron, ripped it off and threw it to the floor for emphasis — "Quit," Arthur finished. He crossed his arms, while smirking as if to ask 'what are you going to do now?'

His boss was speechless. As he sputtered, Arthur could almost see the gears turning in his head.

"You've blooming gone barmey Kirkland! No one will hire a duff like you! You'll never find another boss like me, I—"

"I should hope not," Arthur was surprisingly calm after he had blown his top. It was rather amusing watching his former employer's face change from pallid ivory to heated scarlet. The Briton didn't feel like staying around to hear what the man's retort would be. Over-inflated puffery no doubt.

Arthur turned to see two of the café's cooks watching as strode to the coat rack, took his cap and placed it on his head. He held out his arm and folded his coat over it. As the Briton passed them, he tipped his hat with a cheerful salutation. He locked eyes with them. Their eyes twinkled a bit and the corners of their mouths turned up in merriment as the cruel man received what had been coming to him. The last thing Arthur heard as he exited the back door was a vehement shout.

"Get back to work!"

The young man smiled a bit. That would be the last time he had to listen to that incompetent voice. He was going to make sure of it.

...

The satisfaction that Arthur received from telling his old boss what for was quickly fading. In its place was a growing sense of dread: he had blown it again, but this time Arthur found the regret bubbling up to be slightly out of place. Although he had lost his job, and the Briton had no way of satisfying his aggresive landlord about his rent, he felt he should have been happier to be rid of the unfair occupation. He scowled at nothing in particular as he tried to quell the thoughts of what was coming, such as the bills, the rent he'd have to pay... He shook his head. If only for a moment, he wanted to celebrate what he had just done.

The street came alive as the morning sun shone over the rooftops. The rain had stopped sometime as Arthur had been quitting his job. The man smiled ruefully; it almost seemed symbolic. Water collected in the nooks and crannies between the smooth gray cobblestones, and puddled on the sides of the street where it sloped toward the gutters. Arthur paused to look at his reflection, his angular visage brightened in the golden daylight. He slowly approached a puddle and glanced into the murky water. His eyes seemed lighter somehow, and his head held higher. Arthur allowed himself a brief, genuine smile. Things may have been complete chaos, but at least he was somewhat free at the present.

Arthur looked about him. Pedestrians waved to each other in passing, and the sounds of a waking city could be heard. He spied several children running about, upsetting a woman who in turn dropped the woven basket she was carrying. A man stopped to help her, as the pair then proceeded to converse. Two well-dressed colleagues in homburg hats walked down the narrow street, as a newsboy narrowly avoided cycling into Arthur with the dexterity of a professional.

"Sorry, my good fellow!" the newsboy called over his shoulder as he rounded the corner.

Arthur fought the urge to roll his eyes as he proceeded to amble along. He really did not know what to do now. He could always apply for a career in journalism. After all, he had majored in the subject... but he really had only done it to appease his father's last wishes. Arthur stuck his hands in his pockets. He supposed he was free as a bird, so the question was what did he want to do?

It was really not a hard question. He wanted to be a professional chef. That had been his dream since he was thirteen. The Brit had a passion for it like nothing else. His only problem was that he never received any proper training. He definitely could not afford that. Now that he had time, he could try and learn, but Arthur had undertaken that endeavor before. The only thing he had managed to create was a burnt salad. Besides, he needed to find a way to support himself. It was a funny thing really, the man mused as he strolled aimlessly and noticed harried adults dragging along their carefree children. Children had time and energy, but no money. Adults had energy and money, but no time. Of course, elderly people had time and money, but no energy. Arthur sighed. He had acquired neither energy, time nor money when he had been working. Now he had time, a little bit of energy, but no money besides his meager savings for a rainy day. Well, it would pay for half of a rainy day, anyway.

Arthur broke his daydreaming to notice he had wound up in an entirely unfamiliar section of Northampton, as a result of his ambling. It was more developed than his area of town, with two-story buildings scattered across the square. But what drew Arthur's eye most was the milling crowd. He had stumbled onto the corner of a wide sideway street, blocked off from traffic. In the place of cyclists and commuters was a sprawling marketplace. Chatter, raucous laughter and noises abounded. Arthur could tune his ear to hear certain sounds over others. The sound of children squabbling, men bartering in trade, women gossiping, chickens calling - it was all so familiar to Arthur. It seemed like a lifetime ago, but his first mother had always brought Arthur to the market when she needed ingredients for the night's meal, or perhaps a bolt of fabric to be used for sewing Arthur's new clothes. The fond memory washed over Arthur, and stirred a sense of yearning as he viewed the marketplace. For old time's sake, Arthur hesitantly approached a stall where the vendor appeared to be less busy. The striped tent set up over the fruit stall was faded, but still maintained a welcoming feeling. The vendor was bundling up a sack of oranges for a woman dressed in black. Arthur waited patiently as the seller and the woman exchanged pleasantries. He eyed a scrumptious looking red apple among the many fruits.

"'Ello sir! What can I do ya'?" The cheerful seller smiled as cries from peddlers hawking their wares surrounded Arthur. Arthur blinked in surprise. His accent was foreign. It sounded American.

"Er... " Arthur mumbled rather unintelligbly, then cleared his throat and spoke in a louder voice, "One apple please. A red one."

"O' course! That'll be eight pence please," The vendor turned to pick out the exact apple Arthur had been eyeing. He busied himself with stacking pears as Arthur fished the money out of his pocket. The seller surely was an optimistic bloke. Arthur hadn't met many Americans before. Were they all so upbeat? This one had unkempt brown hair and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He was younger than Arthur, but he was evidently mature enough to manage this stall. He was humming a song that Arthur found vaguely familiar.

"Pardon, but what song are you humming?" Arthur handed the boy his money in exchange for the apple.

"Oh! 'ave you 'eard it? It's an American ragtime song, 'There'll Be a sumthin' sumthin' in Oldtown Tonight'! An oldie but a goodie!" The boy nodded his head.

"Is it 'There'll Be a Hot Time in the Oldtown Tonight'?" Arthur questioned as he inspected his apple with scrutiny.

The boy snapped his fingers and clapped. If it was possible, he seemed to become even more energetic.

"That's the one! By the way, what's your name?"

"Erm... Arthur. Arthur Kirkland." Arthur noted that there seemed to be no other customers at the moment.

"Nice to meetcha! The name's James Crowley. I'm an American!"

Arthur nodded. "So it seems."

James leaned out of the stall slightly and whistled at a couple of passing girls who twittered behind their hands at his bawdy nature. They threw coy glances back at him. The boy rested his chin on his hand as he watched them walk away.

"I sure do love your country," he sighed. Arthur suppressed a smile.

"Though, your food is lacking overall," he continued. "There's not much in the way of cuisine out 'ere besides 'ard biscuits and tea."

Arthur felt his mood sour ever so slightly.

"Well, does your country have any good fare?" Arthur replied. He hadn't heard much in the way of food from across the pond.

"Sure do! At least, where I'm from anyway," James said, looking thoughtful.

He caught Arthur's attention with that statement.

"If you don't mind me asking, where are you from?" Arthur inquired.

James brightened and straightened up. "Why, I'm from New York City! Greatest place in the world! 'Course, it might be because of all the restaurants and their different types of food. But my favorite meal's my second cousin's food. 'e runs the 'idden Blue restaurant in New York. 'is best cookin' is Thanksgivin' dinner though. 'ave you 'eard of 'im?"

Arthur cringed inwardly at the boy's atrocious grammar. He tended to drop the soft 'H' sounds, and - wait a moment.

"Your cousin runs the Hidden Blue? So you're cousins with Alfred F. —"

"Jones," James finished and nodded his head proudly. Arthur was in disbelief. Alfred F. Jones was the most famous chef in the western hemisphere. He had heard Jones's dishes were so good that there was an eight month wait list just to get into the restaurant. He was an American success story, not to mention he was living out Arthur's dream. Arthur had never seen a picture of him, and heard most things by word of mouth. He didn't even know how old the chef was, but at least he knew that he had only gained international recognition in the last few years.

Arthur wanted to know. "How did he become such a popular chef? Besides creating masterpieces of food."

As James tilted his head, his brown mop of hair flopped into his face. Arthur couldn't help but picture an over eager puppy with scruffy fur.

"Ya' know, I'm not really sure. But I bet it's New York! It's the place where all your dreams come true!"

Arthur mulled over his statement. If it was where dreams came true...

"Excuse me, but may I inquire as to why you're not there then?" Arthur asked him.

James looked over Arthur's shoulder. He pointed with his index finger, gesturing at an unseen person.

"It's because I'm watching over this stall for that man. I wanted to visit my family 'ere in Nort'ampton, but it turns out my vacation meant unpaid labor." the boy's face became unamused. "He's my uncle on my mother's side. Uncle Roger!"

"James, you're supposed to be selling the fruit, not chattering," came an exasperated voice from over Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur turned to see a man who looked to be in his early thirties, with a mustache that took up most of his face. James lightened at the sight of the tall gentleman. He waved, and untied his apron.

"Nice to finally see you old boy! Well, my shift's over!"

James hopped over the counter with practiced ease, and shoved his apron into the man's arms.

As the pair spoke of the hour's sales and earnings, Arthur looked down at the ground awkwardly, apple still in hand.

"I suppose I should be going... "

"Nonsense!" James exclaimed. "Join me for lunch!" He wiggled his eyebrows, "I'm going to eat a recipe from old Alfie's archives. You strike me as the type of gent to be interested in cooking, what with all this talk of food. It's made me right 'ungry, it has."

"Well... " Arthur looked in the direction he had come, "It couldn't hurt... "

James laughed, "'Course not! It'll be less than an 'our. No sane person can resist Alfred's cooking."

Arthur smiled despite himself.

...

James and Arthur sat on the edge of the street curb. The foot traffic had settled down considerably, probably due to the nearing lunch hour. The sun had struggled through and driven the clouds away. It still shone brightly, trying to warm the cold Northampton streets.

Arthur peered closely at the container in James' left hand. It was a simple lunch bucket, made of tin. He was dying to know what it contained. James chuckled as he realized his assumption about Arthur being a gourmand was correct. The way the British man was eyeing the lunch pail betrayed him. James lifted the lid and set it on the sidewalk with a clattering noise.

"'ere ya go mister. It wasn't made by Alfred, but 'e gave me 'is recipe to make it. Pays to be the cousin of a chef I 'spose, but 'e left out one thing. 'e never gives out 'is entire recipe to anybody, so it won't taste exactly like 'is. Somethin' about not givin' away 'is secret ingredient," James shrugged and divided his lunch in half. He handed half of it to Arthur. He watched as Arthur hesitated to take it.

"Really sir, you can 'ave some. It's just a sandwich," James held it out.

Arthur took it with a quiet thank you, and pulled his apple out of his pocket.

"What is in this? If it's one of Alfred Jones' recipes, it can't be an ordinary sandwich," Arthur was afraid to eat it. What if he was let down?

"Umm... From what I can recall, some gorgonzola cheese slices, striploin of beef, a little southwestern style chicken breast, turkey breast, roasted eggplant and maple oven roasted salmon. I managed to convince the local butcher to give me some scraps in exchange for credit at m' stall. 'course Uncle Roger doesn't know that yet. 'e'll be one unpleasant fellow when I get back. I also had to trade produce with the green grocer to get a'old of this 'ere eggplant. Aunt Rosie doesn't realize her cheese is missing either. It still doesn't taste like Alfred's though. 'is stuff is amazing, even after you've eaten it before," James commented.

Arthur's jaw dropped. The ingredients cost more than he made in a week. Jones was a genius, if he could create a recipe like that out of thin air.

"I could imagine," Arthur stuttered as he collected his wits.

"Excuse me for bein' rude sir, but I don't think so. It's somethin' rather extraordinary," James smiled.

Arthur shrugged and opted for eating the apple first. He heard the satisying crunch as he bit into the red fruit, and a tiny bit of the its scrumptious juice dribbled from the corner of his mouth. He wiped it off on his sleeve, and felt the need to fill the empty silence with some conversation.

"You really don't have to insist on calling me sir."

James looked up, "Oh really? I guess I just call everyone older than me sir."

"How old are you anyway?" Arthur was curious. He wouldn't have dreamt of asking anyone that question, but James was so carefree. Besides, when one was younger, one didn't particularly care about age.

"Same age as my cousin!" James said, thinking everyone knew how old his culinary genius of a cousin was.

Arthur felt a little embarassed, as he didn't know much about Alfred F. Jones as everyone else seemed to.

"Erm... How old is your cousin?" Arthur found his shoes quite interesting as he looked everywhere but at James.

James laughed, "Why, he's nineteen! Didn't you know that?"

"Nineteen! He's already a world famous chef and running a three star restaurant!" Arthur was shocked. He was only nineteen?

His newfound American friend looked startled at his outburst.

"I take it you didn't? But 'ey, that's America for you! Where a chap can achieve anythin' 'e wants." James happily bit into his sandwich and emitted a hum of pleasure.

It reminded Arthur of his halved sandwich. He set his partially eaten apple down carefully. Arthur nibbled at a corner of the sandwich, and once again was overwhelmed by the flavor. It was crisp and light, not what one would expect from a meat sandwich. The gorgonzola balanced the heavy yet delightful taste of the beef. The eggplant complimented the savory chicken and turkey, which added a certain zing. And the salmon... The sandwich was simply perfection. His apple seemed barely palatable in comparison to the heavenly cuisine. Arthur took larger bites, and closed his eyes to enjoy the flavors. He polished it off in a matter of seconds, and sighed contentedly. The Briton mourned the absence of flavor once he finally reopened his eyes. He felt the need to praise James. He had made the sandwich, after all.

"That was superb, James!" Arthur exclaimed, his green eyes bright.

"Nah, I just followed Alf's recipe; 'e's the real brain. Tastes great though." James looked pleased at the compliment nonetheless.

Arthur wondered how many nicknames James had created for Alfred Jones. He tried to memorize the recipe. He craved more. Suddenly, waiting eight months to sample food this amazing from the Hidden Blue didn't seem so inane.

"Crowley!" James straightened as he heard his uncle call his name from across the street. James packed his things in his lunch pail, stood, and brushed himself off. He looked down at Arthur and extended his hand. Arthur shook it with a smile.

"See ya' si- Kirkland! Good luck in the future!" James retracted his hand and raced off to begin his second shift at the small stall.

Arthur didn't walk home right away, but rather sat in contemplation for a long moment. He mulled over James' words.

_But 'ey, that's America for you! Where a chap can achieve anythin' 'e wants._

Arthur thought up an idea he would have called absurd that morning, but didn't dismiss it this instance. He had lived so safely; maybe it was time to take a risk. Nothing was tying him down, and his previous way of living hadn't done anything for him.

Arthur stood and bent down to pick up his apple. He began walking in the direction of his flat, and tossed the fruit from hand to hand. He finished off the apple until all that was left was the core. Arthur found himself humming that old American ragtime song, 'There'll Be a Hot Time in the Oldtown Tonight'. It was as if Alfred Jones's fare had worked magic over Arthur, and the cuisine was working to fight the usual anxiety Arthur felt in his very core. He allowed the corners of his mouth to turn upwards ever so slightly, despite the fearful apprehension bubbling in the pit of his stomach.

Maybe it was best out west.

...

Thanks so much for reading, I really appreciate it! So, here ends chapter 2! Favorites are great, and follows are too, but I have to admit that I'd love to see your review!


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